


Reason Dictates You Must Not Dance

by Badwxlf



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, I swear its probably not that bad, Jealousy, POV Second Person, Pining, Present Tense, Uh wow those tags look suspicious huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwxlf/pseuds/Badwxlf
Summary: Another take on an old trope.The Doctor feels jealous once someone approaches Rose on the dance floor, but instead of storming in and whisking her away, he runs.





	Reason Dictates You Must Not Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to QueenOfTheNerdlords for having the patience to read over this for me despite not being into Doctor Who!!!! Thank you!!
> 
> fun fact: I have this titled as "why did you write this in 2nd person you idiot" in my google drive

**She's dancing.** ****  
  
She's dancing and it's like the lights are dancing with her, the way they pulse and thrum and beam into a myriad of colors around her.

She moves with the music and you could almost forget that this club wasn't made for her, that she's millions of miles and thousands of years away from ever actually having the authority to claim ownership over the dance floor. You almost forget because she owns it all anyway, lack of legal documentation be damned.  
  
She's not "no one" tonight.  
  
No, she's brilliant.

She's beaming.

She's _luminescent_ underneath the strobe lights—or maybe you're just biased—and she's having fun. So, it doesn't matter that you'd rather be somewhere else, because you know she deserves it. Deserves a little something indulgent like this every once in awhile.

You? You're standing by the wall, away from the massive throng of gyrating bodies— _gyrating? really?_ —yet still somewhere you can keep watch on her in case she gets hurt. In case she accidentally bumps into an alien with communication problems and anger management issues, in case someone touches her the wrong way, or, maybe, in case something blows up and you've gotta be able to quickly grab her hand and run.  
  
(Hah. That last one actually sounds kind of fun. Your kind of fun, that is, once you ignore all the hazards and consequences and just leave it all to the adrenaline.)  
  
You try not to feel guilty about how you chose not to join her, at how you pointedly declined her earlier offer. You try not to regret how all of this just isn't your style. Old, grumpy alien, you are. You don't exactly belong here. You know better.  
  
There's a rather attractive boy shimmying his way to her side, you notice. He’s all height and perfectly coiffed hair and gentle, disarming features. Yeah. That guy, he'd belong here.  
  
He can dance with her. You can't.  
  
She notices him and she flashes him a smile. Pretty boy returns it, says something, and you can only assume he's chatting her up. Probably whipped out one of those cheesy pickup lines that are meant to be alluring but she thinks are actually hilarious because next thing you know, she's laughing. She glances at you briefly before turning completely toward him, amusement clear in the curve of her smile. He's got her attention. He's got yours, too.  
  
They speak for a few minutes, turning and twisting as the music demands, and then they move from the dance floor over to a nearby table. You can't decipher what they're saying over the confusion of the background chatter and the thumping bass, but you can tell she's enjoying his presence.

You briefly wish your arsenal of Superior Time Lord Senses included heightened long-distance selective hearing, but then you remember that you're not a creep. She might be your companion, but she's just that: your _companion_ , and while that means you try your best to protect her it doesn't mean you get to lord over her every waking decision.

She's entitled to a private life, a life separate from you.  
  
Pretty boy rests a hand on her knee and you try not to scowl. She doesn't shake it off. She doesn't care. _She’s enjoying herself_.

You keep all these things in mind as he inches closer.

Swallowing down something in your throat, you realize you probably shouldn't be watching this.  She'd probably want to be alone if she actually takes a liking to this guy.

Yeah.

A private life. This is her private life.  
  
Right now, the planet is in peace. Their timeline is stable; you checked. You managed to land somewhere legitimately safe and their security measures are immaculate. It's a golden age: crime rates are low and folks are walking around with manners, even in a club. It's great.

Fantastic.  
  
You should be able to leave her alone without worrying.  
  
Just as pretty boy throws an arm around her shoulders, you turn around. In the corner, there's some poor bloke passed out on a couch, communication device in one hand and fruity intoxicant in the other, and you stride over to him.

You deftly pluck the device out of his hand, sonic through its digital genetic lock, and type out a message. The message should translate into a text for her on her rigged-up 21st century mobile, so you don't have to worry about her not being able to find you. She always checks your messages.

You tell her you'll be in the next room, where it's a just a bit quieter.  
  
Immediately after the message is sent you erase all evidence of your presence and deposit the device right where you found it, muttering a "thanks" you know the bloke who owned it isn't conscious enough to hear.  
  
Looking back up at her, you witness her startle at the sudden buzz in her pocket. You walk out of the room as she finishes reading, allowing her only a glimpse of your figure as you escape.  


* * *

  
  
It's more like a lounge than anything else. The room you've fled into seems almost subdued, a sharp contrast to the riotous dance floor on the other side of the wall. The lighting is dim and once the glass door slips shut behind you the music withdraws into the background, a muffled remnant of the scene you've left behind. While it's not nearly as crowded, the room is a far cry from desolate. You have to stride past a variety of giggling couples before you manage to make it to one of the seats in the back.  
  
Sitting down now, you recline, stretching out your legs and entwining your fingers behind you so you fold your arms and reach up to support your head. If you close your eyes, you'd be the perfect image of confident nonchalance and relaxation.

So you do. You close your eyes and you block out the wayward ambient noise all around you.

But that doesn’t mean you’ll find any peace.

The silence of your lonely mind is imposing, and yours is the only voice in what should be a thrumming sea of existence and life. You know you are alone even as others seat themselves around you, even as you sense the turn of the earth and recall how the planet thrives. Your own head works itself into a hollow cavern, amplifying every thought your restless spirit provides and echoing them back with more force, more significance than before. It’s like your thoughts are louder than they should be.

Terrified of being swept away, you try not to think of troublesome things. Things like your own feelings or the crushing loneliness surviving entails, for example. Things like the wonderful girl sitting in the next room over. Or, worse yet, how that wonderful girl transforms those feelings and chases away the loneliness. How she makes surviving seem less like a sin.

But when your brilliant mind moves at a million miles per second and your two hearts claw at away at your rib cage you can’t. You just can’t.

You're caught.  
  
You didn't really stay just to protect her. No, there's more to it than that, isn't there? She's strong, resourceful. She's always telling you how she can handle anything, and you've never doubted her, not once.

In truth, the place is safe. You had no real reason to shadow her. You just wanted to stay—to see her smile, to see her dance—all because you think she's _fantastic_ and the sight of her so happy makes you feel like a fool.  
  
You turned away because you wanted to go to her. You wanted to walk up to her and sweep her away, wanted to distract her and take her mind off of that stranger, but you knew you couldn't.  
  
You fled because you loved her more than you'd care to admit, more than you _could_ admit, and you knew you shouldn't.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
You're really only there for a few minutes before you feel a tap on your shoulder. It’s gentle at first, and brief enough that it quickly fades into a memory, leaving you with the impression that it hadn’t even happened in the first place. Still, it managed to shock you into awareness, so when it comes back, a bit more insistent, you can’t ignore it any longer.

You crack open an eye to gauge your assailant, maybe even to tell them to bugger off, but then you’re met with the familiar image of unruly blonde hair, tousled and tinged maroon in the dim lounge light, sweeping across slightly flushed skin. She’s standing before you, hovering right above you, the source of all your brooding turmoil. She looks almost like how she does at the end of the day, after she lets go of your hand, after you make it back to the TARDIS safely... after running for your lives.

Must be the dancing.

You release your arms from behind your head and sit up, regarding her with an inquiring expression which she promptly ignores.

“Tired?” she asks, moving to sit beside you.

“Hardly,” you reply. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

“Maybe.” Her lips quirk into a smirk. “I might be a little knackered. Just a bit.”

She shifts a little, edging closer toward you. Instinctively, you lift your arm, and she moves to gather herself under it and relax into your side.

“That why you came back here? Had enough of dancing?”

She breathes out a slight chuckle. “Nah, never get enough of dancing. Jus’ figured I’d... Break for the night or something. Make sure a certain Time Lord doesn’t get too lonely,” she adds, a mischievous glint in her eye.

You roll your eyes, masking the affection spreading unbidden deep within your chest. “What about your friend back there? Wouldn’t he get lonely, too?” you ask.

She grins this time, almost like she can see through everything you do, everything you hide.

Or maybe that's just something she does and you’re a little paranoid.

“Well, _you’re_ full of questions,” she teases, then pauses. “We were talking about you, you know.”

“Oh?”

“He thought you were after me.” Her voice floods with mirth, “Wanted to warn me or something. Like you were some sort of predator.”

“Predator?” You echo indignantly. “ _Me?_ ”

She’s laughing now. “God, Doctor, say something that doesn't end in a question mark, yeah?”

“I’m not some sort of _predator_. Not the least predatory, me. Going around stalking girls?” You scoff, “Stupid.”

“I know,” she says. “But you can't blame ‘im, can you? Lurking off to the side an’ watching me... All tall, dark, and threatening in that leather jacket of yours.” You raise your eyebrows and she pokes your chest. “Don’t even try an’ deny it. Anyway, it was sweet of him. He was kind of cute...” 

She trails off and you catch yourself unconsciously pulling her closer. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed, and her grin turns sly for a moment before it becomes playful and teasing yet again. You try not to think about what could possibly be running through her head.

“I noticed. He’s your type, isn’t he? You know, a little bit _pretty_.”

“Might be,” she pretends to consider it. “Something wrong with that?”

“No, it's just—” _just that he’s not me_ , you almost say, but then you shake your head. “I don't have to worry ‘bout you dragging him on board ‘cause you're a little fond of him now, do I?”

Her smile falters. You continue regardless, “What is it this time? Not the stars, I hope. A little bit unoriginal, that. Always dreamt of seeing Mars?”

“What are you talking about?” She bristles, “He doesn't—I don’t—” 

“Sure you don't.”

Her expression flares and she sits up a bit, hand pressed flat against your chest. Her warmth filters through the wool of your jumper and onto your skin. “That was a one-time thing! So I made a mistake, it’s _fine_ now. He’s back home!”

“‘Course, it's fine,” you scoff, “S’not like that one mistake of yours destroyed everything. No, nearly kill you and condemn the entire human race, _sure_ , but yeah. We’re good.”

“What's the matter with you?” she demands. “It wasn't a big deal before. I thought you—Why’re you bringing it up _now_?”

You stiffen, unborn excuses dying in your throat. Not a single reason manifests itself in that impressive brain of yours—at least none good enough to justify you and your actions—and you turn your head away, avoiding her gaze. Guilt and shame well up inside you, bubbling, rising up and burning like bile at the realization that you’re just picking a fight now. Like some sort of... child.

A stone lodges itself in the place where your stomach should be. You hesitate to respond for far too long, the silence stretching out between you both emphasized by how much easier it is to decipher the conversations of those around you. She sighs and deflates, sinking back into your arms.

She doesn’t leave you.

Reaching a hand up, you gently begin to comb your fingers through her hair. It’s soft and it tickles your cheek. “I’m sorry,” you say, achingly tender. “‘M just being an idiot. I never blamed you for anything, not really.”

A second passes. “S’okay,” she mumbles. “I know.”

You keep stroking her hair and she moves to fiddle idly with your jacket. Taking a deep breath, you adopt a lighter tone of voice. “Where is he, anyway?” you ask.

“I talked to ‘im,” she answers. “Convinced him I was fine an’ he left, easy. Y’know, he tried to seem all familiar with me so he’d scare you away. S’all it was. But I told him I knew you and you weren’t dangerous.”

Something flutters inside your chest. “Now, Rose Tyler, who told you I wasn’t dangerous?”

“Like you’d hurt _me_. Or anyone, you plum,” she says, and you just know she’s rolling her eyes. “At least, not on purpose. Not if you can help it. Why’d you leave all of a sudden?”

“It just... felt wrong,” you shrug. Before she could tense up you add, “No trouble. Just didn't wanna shadow over you while you were... making new friends. Bit creepy, that. Should give you some time to yourself.”

“So you left ‘cause you thought I was with someone else?”

“You could put it like that, yeah.”

She shifts a bit in your arms, shaking slightly, and you realize she’s chuckling. Leaning back a little, you peer at her questioningly. “Is that what this was?” she asks once she looks up at you. “Are you jealous, Doctor?”

At your incredulous expression, she just completely dissolves into giggles, lifting herself from your embrace slightly. You open your mouth to protest but she shushes you, snickering. “Don’t worry,” she says. “‘M jus’ teasin’. God, imagine that: _you_ , the Doctor, _jealous_. Of some random bloke in a club."

You shake your head in exasperation and glance away to hide how on-point her assumption was. You _were_ jealous of some random bloke in a club. But that... doesn’t need to be confirmed.

Once she calms down, you glance back, wary. Her giggles have dissolved into a delicate but still generously amused smile, and the look in her eyes makes your hearts stutter. They gleam, even in the subdued lighting of the lounge, and they leave you almost wondering if, maybe, she was _hoping_ you were jealous. There’s more to her look than humor alone.  

The thought is ridiculously pleasing, too satisfying to ever entertain.

“Hey, I’ve been wondering, how’d you get to sendin’ that text? I _know_ you don't have a mobile.”

“Borrowed it from someone passed out in the corner,” you answer easily. Her smile widens just the slightest bit at that.

“Of _course_. Should've guessed. Far be it from you to honestly go out and buy a mobile of your own,” she teases. “Jus’ gotta nick it from some poor unconscious bloke, right?”

“The only way to go about it, really,” you grin and she shakes her head, chuckling.

When she speaks again, her tone is noticeably softer. “But, y’know... I was really disappointed when I got that text.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were leaving. I didn't want you to go.”

You regard her, confusion contorting your expression. “I was just heading to the next room. It seemed like you had plenty enough company. Not good for much besides watchin’ anyway, and look where that got me.”

“Yeah, but... S’jus’ nicer with you there, even if you're only watching. I like you near,” she says, and for a moment you swear one of your hearts seized. It was such a simple admission, really, and completely harmless, but the way she’s looking at you leaves you hoping. You admonish yourself for the satisfaction blossoming in your chest.

Before you can register you’ve done it, you wrap your arms around her and pull her up against you. She’s practically sitting on you now, and the warmth of her body seeps through your clothes, heating up the cool of your skin. A very selfish, impractical part of you wants her even closer. You’re too busy trying to fight that impulse to ease your embrace and scoot away.

She looks at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Really?” you ask, and it takes her a second to realize what you’re referring to. When she does, the haze clears.

“Yeah.”

You duck your head until your faces are close enough to share a breath. Her nose almost brushes against yours. “Is this near enough?” you murmur, voice low. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating.

“I dunno,” she whispers. “Could be nearer...”

The intensity of her gaze could haunt your dreams at night. There’s something there, mingling in the air you share, a sort of tension that leaves you _wanting_. She eases closer, and she tilts her head. You’re almost there, you are, but then her eyes flutter shut and you snap out of it. Reality crashes into you like a curse. 

Pulling back swiftly, before your lips could ever really meet, your hands slide up to gently grasp both sides of her face. You tilt her head down and lift yours, placing a kiss on her forehead instead. Her eyes open and a myriad of emotions flicker across her face, providing a brief yet vibrant display of shock and confusion and everything inbetween. You’re warring with the regret rising in your chest when you pull back and plaster on a wide grin.

You tell yourself that she was just caught in the moment. That you imagined the disappointment in her eyes. Because, what else could you do? You’d break otherwise.

Cutting through the super-charged atmosphere, you speak, voice adopting a tone far too pleasantly manufactured to be natural. It’s almost jarring, and you hold back a wince.

“You’re stuck with me, then.”

“What?” she begins, and every word that follows is breathless, dazed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“You said you’d like me to stay,” you explain. “So I’ll stick with you. No more unchaperoned alien clubbing for Rose Tyler. Nope.”

Her grip on your leather jacket tightens. She searches your face—analyzing it, almost—so you put on the most normal expression you can while pleading, really, that she doesn’t push further and that she doesn’t ask you any questions you can’t bear to answer. She seems to find something, although you’re not quite sure what, and she relaxes. Her face falls, her shoulders slump, she sighs... and then she sends you a small smile.

“Sounds good. Thanks, Doctor.”

She shifts a bit and settles back into you. Her head hits your shoulder and she keeps it there, resting. Now, it’s your turn to sigh. You let the grin go.

“Tired?” she asks. The conversation has come full circle.

“Hardly,” you reply, just as you should. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

Her breath tickles the skin of your neck. “Maybe.”

“No more dancin’?”

“Not for tonight.”

You gently ease her up, carefully moving her off of you. As your bodies shift apart, leaving you feeling more than a little bereft, you offer her your hand. “Then let’s go home, Rose.”

“Alright,” she says, and she laces her fingers through yours.

 

* * *

  
  
  
The console room is quiet once she wishes you goodnight. You’re left with only the comforting hum of the TARDIS in the background to accompany you and overall, it’s definitely much better than the club scene. No comparison necessary. You’re back where you belong.

But still, after what you’ve just done—or rather, didn’t do—you don’t really have it in you to appreciate the quiet. What were you doing, chasing after the silence? Using it as an excuse to run away when you should have known it would lead you directly to what you feared most? The quiet only reminds you of what you lost and what you could never have.

 _This_ is why you’re always moving.

Heading into that lounge, for example, was a mistake. Not only did you fall deeper into yourself and every single thought you care to avoid, but you unknowingly prompted her to come after you, wrenching her from a good time and leaving her at your mercy. Really. This is ridiculous. _You’re_ ridiculous.

Next time, you won’t be able to pull back fast enough. You won’t remember that there are other, safer options like kisses on foreheads or cheeks or no kisses at all, even, and you know why.

You love her, you old fool. You love her.

How long do you think you can hide it for?


End file.
